Shoot / Don't Shoot

he was a little boy.”

Jenny’s eyes widened. “No! Is that true?”

Butch Dixon grinned. “If your mother says so,” he told her, “then it must be.”

Epilogue

Butch Dixon hosted the celebration dinner that night. All the cops and FBI agents who could be corralled into doing so came to the Roundhouse Bar and Grill for freebie dinners, which included Caboose dishes of ice cream, peanuts, and chocolate syrup all the way around.

The party lasted until well after midnight. The Duffys had long since taken Pablo and Ceci and headed for home. Joanna and the Bradys were about to do the same with Jenny when a drained Carol Strong limped into the restaurant carrying her signature high heels, one of which was sheared off under the sole. The lighting in the bar wasn’t the best, but even in its dim glow, Joanna was sur­prised by the haggard expression on the detective’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Joanna asked when Carol sat down beside her. “You look awful.”

“You would, too, if you’d just been through what I’ve been through.”

“What?”

“We discovered Larry Dysart had closed off all the air ducts to the bomb shelter,” Carol answered. “I don’t know exactly how long the girls would have lasted before they ran out of air, but it wouldn’t have been forever. It’s a good thing we found them when we did.”

“Oh,” Joanna said. It was all she could manage.

“And we found a jewelry box,” Carol continued. “A jewelry box that he evidently used as a trophy case. It had nine pairs of panties in it. Eight offi­cially, because I didn’t catalog this one.”

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a pair of nylon panties and placed them in Joanna’s hands. “Mine?” Joanna asked without looking.

Carol nodded. “You said it was part of a set your husband gave you. If I had listed them in the offi­cial evidence inventory, you never would have seen them again. Put them away fast before anybody else sees them,” Carol ordered. “That FBI agent, LaDonna Bright, and I are the only ones who know about them so far. I want to keep it that way.”

Guiltily, Joanna shoved the panties into her blazer pocket. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“You’re welcome,” Carol Strong replied.

They sat in silence for a moment watching and listening while Butch Dixon charmed a weary Jenny with an old shaggy-dog story that was nonetheless brand-new to her. She laughed delightedly at the punch line.

“You said eight other pairs?” Joanna asked even­tually.

Carol nodded. “There’s an index of sorts taped to the bottom of the box,” she said quietly. “It con­tains names and dates. Matching codes have been inked into the labels of each pair of panties. I guess he must have been afraid the toll might one day go so high that he’d forget which panties belonged to which victim.”

Joanna swallowed hard. “Eight. How could there be so many?”

“Scary, isn’t it,” Carol said. “Number six was Se­rena Grijalva. Seven was Rhonda Weaver Norton. Leann Jessup is listed as number eight, except she didn’t die. Once we finish examining all the trace evidence, I’m pretty sure we’ll find that Dave Thompson didn’t commit suicide.”

“Larry killed him, too? Why?”